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As the leaves that were withering and sere, And I cried-" It was surely October,

Was this very night of last year,

That I journey'd—I journey'd down here—
That I brought a dread burthen down here—
On this night of all nights in the year,
Ah, what demon has tempted me here?
Well I know now this dim lake of Auber—
This misty mid-region of Weir-

Well I know now the dank tarn of Auber,
This ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir."

EDGAR A. POE.

I

LINES

WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING. 1798.

HEARD a thousand blended notes,

While in a grove I sate reclined,

In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts
Bring sad thoughts to the mind.

To her fair works did Nature link
The human soul that through me ran

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And much it grieved my heart to think
What man has made of man.

Through primrose tufts, in that green bower, The periwinkle trailed its wreaths;

And 'tis my faith that every flower

Enjoys the air it breathes.

The birds around me hopp'd and play'd,

Their thoughts I cannot measure :—
But the least motion which they made,
It seem'd a thrill of pleasure.

The budding twigs spread out their fan,
To catch the breezy air;

And I must think, do all I can,
That there was pleasure there.

If this belief from heaven be sent,
If such be Nature's holy plan,
Have I not reason to lament
What man has made of man?

WORDSWORTH.

I

THE MAID'S LAMENT.

LOVED him not; and yet now he is gone
I feel I am alone.

I check'd him while he spoke; yet could he speak,
Alas! I would not check.

For reasons not to love him once I sought,
And wearied all my thought

To vex myself and him: I now would give
My love could he but live

Who lately lived for me, and when he found
'Twas vain, in holy ground

He hid his face amid the shades of death.

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Who wasted his for me: but mine returns,

And this lorn bosom burns

With stifling heat, heaving it up in sleep,

And making me to weep

Tears that had melted his soft heart: for

Wept he as bitter tears.

Merciful God! such was his latest prayer,

These may she never share!

Quieter is his breath, his breast more cold
Than daisies in the mould,

years

Where children spell, athwart the churchyard gate,

His name and life's brief date.

Pray for him, gentle souls, whoe’er you be,

And oh! pray too for me!

W. S. LANDOR.

66

FAIRY SONG.

[FROM THE MAID'S METAMORPHOSIS."]

B

Y the moon we sport and play,
With the night begins our day;
As we dance the dew doth fall;
Trip it, little urchins all!
Lightly as the winged bee,

Two by two, and three by three,

And about go we, and about

go

we!

JOHN LYLY.

L

[EVENING.]

OW-FLOWING breezes are roaming the broad valley dimm'd in the gloaming:

Thorough the black-stemm'd pines only the far river shines.

Creeping through blossomy rushes and bowers of rose-blowing bushes,

Down by the poplars tall rivulets babble and fall.

Barketh the shepherd-dog cheerly; the grasshopper carolleth clearly;

Deeply the turtle coos; shrilly the owlet halloos;

Winds creep; dews fall chilly; in her first sleep earth breathes stilly:

Over the pools in the burn watergnats murmur and mourn.

Sadly the far kine loweth: the glimmering water out-floweth :

Twin peaks shadow'd with pine slope to the dark hyaline.

Low-throned Hesper is stayed between the two peaks; but the Naiad,

Throbbing in mild unrest, holds him beneath in her breast.

The ancient poetess singeth that Hesperus all things bringeth,

Soothing the wearied mind. Bring me my love, Rosalind!

Thou comest morning and even; she cometh not morning or even.

False-eyed Hesper, unkind, where is my sweet

Rosalind ?

TENNYSON.

EDOM O' GORDON.

[OLD BALLAD.]

T fell about the Martinmas,

IT

When the wind blew shrill and cauld,

Said Edom o' Gordon to his men,

"We maun draw to a hauld.

"And whatna hauld sall we draw to,
My merry men and me ?

We will gae to the house of the Rodes,
To see that fair ladye."

The ladye stood on her castle wa',
Beheld baith dale and down;

There she was avare of a host of men
Came riding towards the toun.1

"O see ye not, my merry men a'?
O see ye not what I see?
Methinks I see a host of men;
I marvel who they be."

She ween'd it had been her luvely lord,
As he cam' riding hame;

It was the traitor, Edom o' Gordon,
Wha reck'd nor sin nor shame.

She had nae sooner buskit hersell
And putten on her goun,

Till Edom o' Gordon an' his men
Were round about the toun.

They had nae sooner supper set,
Nae sooner said the grace,
But Edom o' Gordon an' his men
Were lighted about the place.

The ladye ran up to her tower-head,
As fast as she could hie,

To see if by her fair speeches
She could wi' him agree.

"Come doun to me, ye ladye gay,

Come doun, come doun to me; This night sall ye lig within mine armes, To-morrow my bride sall be."

"I winna come down, ye fause Gordon, I winna come down to thee;

1 Toun (town), an enclosed place.

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